Maddie squealed and bounced in her seat.
“As long as it doesn’t involve sequins, glitter, or sparkles on my clothing or face—I’m in.”
“Deal.” Maddie stretched her arm across the bar, her pinkie hooked out. Clover hooked their pinkies together, and they turned to the side, pretending to spit to seal the deal.
Clover drummed her hands on the counter. “Are you ready to finish the bags?”
“Now that my evil plan to get you out of the house is under way—yes.”
Clover laughed, even though the brownies sat heavy on her stomach, and her wrists itched with anxiety. She scratched them quickly and then shook out her arms while Maddie’s back was turned. She could do this. She’d hate it. But she could go out there and talk to a man like a normal human being.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the memory of her mom—screaming at her for talking to the nice man who offered to buy her lunch—rushed back with crippling force. All she had to do was take a little ride in his van. He even had a soda in the cup holder that she could drink on the way to get a hamburger. Her mouth had watered at the thought of a whole hamburger all to herself.
Mom was asleep on the park bench. She could go and be back before Mom woke up. She’d even save some food to share. She was halfway in the van when her mom came tearing down the grassy hill, screaming for her to get away fromthat stranger. Fear took root in Clover’s heart.
“Clover?”
“Hmm?” She pulled herself out of the memory. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted these cards with directions to the soup kitchen in each bag.” She held up a stack of index cards. Clover had spent every spare minute at the front desk writing out the directions in blue ink. She didn’t have a computer or printer, and she didn’t dare use the one in the hotel for fear she’d lose her job.
“Yes. Shoot! I forgot.” They’d already filled 50 bags. “I’ll go back and put them in the others later. Let’s finish up what we have left and call it a night.”
“Sounds like a plan. But next week we are going to party.” Maddie lifted her hands above her head and shook her backside.
Clover copied her movements even though she was dying inside. She’d been to enough group counseling sessions to know that the only way to overcome a fear was to face it head-on. She could do this. For her best friend—and for herself—she could put on a dress and strut her stuff.
If all else failed, there was always a bathroom stall to hide in.
Chapter Two
Dustin Colt, shortstop for the St. George Redrocks, left behind the construction crew’s chatter and whirl of power tools with a wave to his younger brother.
White dust clung to his shoulders, hair, pants, and any surface it could find. He rubbed the globs of dried Sheetrock compound off his arms and ignored the fact that they were probably in his beard, too. He ran his hand down the rough whiskers. Shaving was bad luck—unless you were a Yankee, and then it was a requirement. He’d give up the beard for a shot at a Yankee paycheck. Making Yankee money would mean he didn’t have to maintain an active role in the company he and his brother had started way back before Dustin made it out of Triple-A.
Not that he wasn’t making good money as a Redrock—he was. There just never seemed to be enough. His family didn’t ask for handouts, but he couldn’t turn his back on the people who’d fed and housed him when he was making peanuts and following his dream. Since he now had the means to relieve their burdens, he wanted to help. His brother, for example, was supporting a wife and four kids. Kids were expensive—even more so when they graduated from diapers.
He shook his head and picked up the pace. Coach Wolfe had a low tolerance for tardiness on game days, and Dustin was already pushing his luck. He’d shower at the clubhouse to save time.
The construction manager insisted that the workers park down the street at the grocery store, so they didn’t clog the roads and block the few owners who had already moved into their new homes.
Tripping over a high curb, Dustin cursed under his breath. He stepped again, only his foot caught on something else. He picked up his foot and the front half of the soul of his shoe dangled. That was just great. He’d had these work boots for nine years. One might say they were beat up, but he preferred the term broken in. Dustin pressed on, limping as his boot made akler-flapwith each step.
“Excuse me?” called a chipper female voice as a Camry older than his nephew pulled alongside the sidewalk.
He turned to see a pretty brunette hanging out the passenger-side window. She had dimples high on her cheeks and freckles sprinkled across her pixie nose. Her face was fresh, without a trace of makeup, and her long hair was … reckless. She wasn’t the usual groupie flagging him down for an autograph or selfie, which was probably why he stopped to stare. Or, perhaps he stopped because his heart was beating so rapidly.
“Hi.” She slowly climbed out of the car, and he got a good look at her long and shapely legs.
“Hi,” he replied like an idiot.
She moved as if she was afraid to startle him or something. Shehadstartled him, but his legs had no intention of moving him away from her. “Um, I brought you something.”
Embarrassed by his broken shoe and doing his best to avoid akler-flap,he shuffled closer. He wouldn’t agree to a selfie, not while covered in Sheetrock dust and smelling like he’d run sprints in the desert. Maybe he could convince her to meet up after the game tonight. Or, better yet, he could offer her tickets for the game and hope she didn’t bring a boyfriend along. That was smooth—much smoother thanhi.
She reached through the open window and retrieved a plastic bag off the seat, which she pressed into his hands. Their eyes met, and his already speeding heart careened around a corner like a curveball on crack. Never, in all his life, had he ever seen a woman with gold eyes. Yet, her eyes were the perfect balance of yellow, brown, and something whimsical that produced an alchemy effect turning them to gold. Liquid gold, to be precise, as they were warm and swirling with … compassion.
He blinked, unsure if he’d read her right.
